Pathway to Japanese Literature

That morning, the maid woke later than usual and, instinctively realizing she was late, hurriedly leapt up.
Usually, Oshige, who slept beside her, would wake up as precisely as an alarm clock and rouse her, but now Oshige’s bed lay empty.
Struck by this simple fact in some profound way, she became fully awake at once, hurriedly changed out of her nightclothes, and, fastening her obi, made her way to the kitchen.
When she turned on the light, there… in the old-fashioned kitchen, on the wooden board in front of the sunken washing area one step below the wooden floor, Oshige lay crouched sideways, still in her white yukata-like nightclothes.
“Oh….”
She stomped closer—“Granny…”—the words caught in her throat—and had just laid a hand on the shoulder when she jerked back in shock.
And when she peered in again and shook her with both hands, Oshige’s body was like frozen timber.

Whether she had cried out or not—she herself couldn’t recall—she raced to the inner room and roused the master and his wife.

Shimamura examined Oshige’s body.
The sickly wife—still from when she was alive—stood rigid as a stick, her face deathly pale.
Behind her, the young maid crouched trembling.
Oshige had one eye rolled back to the whites, both hands thrust stiffly out, knees convulsively bent, and lay collapsed on her side.
Near her head lay an overturned bucket that had probably been full of water.
It had wet her hair and shoulders.
There were no external injuries, no signs of poisoning, and the kitchen’s storm shutters were closed.
Shimamura stroked the corpse’s eyelids and closed them.
Then he shouted for a towel.
Using the new towel the maid had brought, he wiped the wet hair and shoulders.

“Lend me a hand.”
“Let’s lay her down.”

At that moment, the maid suddenly burst into tears.
And choking back her voice, tears pattering down, she clung to the corpse’s legs as if embracing them.
Shimamura supported the shoulders.
It was light.
The corpse was laid out long and flat on the futon in the maids’ room.

“For now, keep the children from waking up,” Shimamura said.

The wife lost all color in her face, her features waxen, only the tears pooled in her eyes shining with vivid rawness.
Shimamura went to the telephone.

The pale light of a late spring dawn streamed through the glass-paned transom into the electrically lit interior.

Dr. Tanaka, who was acquainted with Shimamura, came immediately upon receiving the urgent call.
Oshige had apparently been dead for four or five hours, leaving no possibility of intervention.
Though there were no suspicious elements regarding the cause of death, since it involved a sudden demise outside familial circumstances, they formally requested a police physician’s attendance.
Her medical history included arteriosclerosis; death by cerebral hemorrhage...
She had likely felt mild discomfort during the night and collapsed from a sudden cerebral hemorrhage while rising to fetch water.
She had already reached sixty years of age.
“The direct cause is evident,” Tanaka whispered to Shimamura, “but there may be some indirect factor that precipitated this cerebral hemorrhage...”
As for her relatives in Tokyo, there remained only a distant relation operating a small folding-box shop in Honjo and her niece’s daughter who had become a geisha in Shitaya.
These individuals were summoned, and at Shimamura’s residence they placed the corpse into a coffin, conducted abbreviated sutra readings, and resolved to transport the remains to her hometown in Niigata Prefecture.

For over three years since coming under Shimamura’s care through a friend’s introduction, Oshige had rarely interacted with the folding box shop in Honjo.
Instead, she occasionally visited her niece’s daughter.
As it was considered improper for a geisha to visit the house, she never once had her come over from there; but about once or twice a month they would talk on the phone without either side taking the initiative, and roughly every three months she would visit from here to receive pocket money and everyday clothes.
She would tell the maids this was a truly filial and kind girl, speaking of her constantly.
She seemed to rely entirely on her.
Regarding her almost as her own child, it appeared Oshige’s ideal—nay, her very purpose—was to before long establish a household with her.
Likely for this reason, she lived with extreme frugality, depositing most of her wages into postal savings.
Whenever she received a lump sum of twenty or thirty yen in pocket money from her niece, she would invariably show it to Madam and delight like a child at seeing her savings grow.

Her sole luxury—her sole expense—was undergarments and paper.
Even outwardly wearing plain clothes, against her skin she always wore pristine white cloth, and took pride in using clean white paper.
"That girl—Mochiko—told me so," she would add.
The pristine white undergarments, waistbands, and paper—likely instilled by Mochiko—occasionally drew wry smiles from the Shimamuras, but in all other matters, she never wasted a single sen.
And when it was quietly revealed that her savings, combined with various amounts from before, had grown to over a thousand yen, Shimamura’s wife was not a little astonished.

Three days before her death, Oshige was called by Mochiko over the telephone, took half a day off, and went out.
When she returned, she sank into deep thought and scarcely spoke to the other maid.
Then a day later, in the evening, she went out again to Mochiko’s place.
And by the next morning, she had already become a corpse.

Shimamura’s wife heard in detail from the young maid about the circumstances of the previous night.

Due to her illness, Shimamura’s wife usually went to bed around nine o’clock, but that night Shimamura too retired early.

After that, Oshige returned.

Upon hearing that everyone in the main house had retired, Oshige revealed her gap-toothed grin and smirked.
Her laugh appeared strangely sinister but quickly reverted to her usual kind smile as she opened the furoshiki bundle.
Inside were an assortment box of simmered dishes - sweet potato paste, lotus root, shrimp, and assorted seafood - along with a two-gō bottle of sake.
As this was unprecedented, the maid looked startled, but Oshige laughed and said, “Today’s a special secret.”
Her demeanor showed unprecedented high spirits.
It was as if some surging emotion within her had transformed into cheerfulness and was spilling forth.
Moreover, she seemed to have already drunk some alcohol.
She went to stand in the kitchen while shaking her head in rapid small motions, then returned after heating the two-gō bottle as it was.
There were times when she would drink a cup or two of the dregs left in the sake flask, but she had never once bought her own alcohol to drink in secret.

“This is what that girl gave me.”
“You mustn’t go copying things like this.”
“Is that clear?”

She said with a scornful look, then laughed.
She picked at the assortment box’s contents, began drinking the sake, and offered some to the maid.
But she did not insist.
She also said it was better not to drink while young.
Then, as if suddenly remembering, she said she wanted to go pay her respects to the mistress but wondered if it would be improper to wake her.
She repeated the same things and said contradictory things.
Before long, she suddenly teared up and began crying.
She laughed while crying.
Crying brought her joy, laughing filled her with sorrow—she had fallen into such a rhythm.
Her thin, sparse hair had lost its luster and become brittle, yet the deeply wrinkled skin of her thick face was flushed with a dull redness.

“There’s no one as kind as that girl.”
“Today, I kept repeating ‘Mochiko... Mochiko...’ in my heart all the way back.”
“She treated me to a feast and insisted—absolutely wouldn’t take no—that I bring this along and eat before sleeping soundly.”
“And that’s because I cried.”
“‘I cry from happiness,’ I kept saying—but she didn’t seem to grasp it...”
“Is that how young folks are nowadays?”
“Crying over sadness is ordinary—real weeping comes when joy moves you.”
“You mightn’t understand either.”
“When you age—sadness stops mattering.”
“Tears pour precisely when you’re happy.”
“That girl fretted so over me—it pained my heart.”
“Still—it’s a blessing.”
“To think she prepared all this food and sake...”
“When I returned—she pressed me: ‘Explain everything to Master and drink this.’”
“Master and Madam are good souls—they’d understand if I told them...”
“But waking them... No—best not.”
“Good as they are—there’s one thing I can’t fathom... Squandering every yen like that... As if more will always come when it’s gone—the world doesn’t work so!”
“You must save.”
“You too—start saving now. Any amount.”
“With this—I’ve scrimped desperately near ten years.”

“Ten years—that’s a long time.”
“For someone your age—in ten years you’ll be thirty… A woman’s twenty and thirty are worlds apart.”
“When that time comes, even if you panic—without savings—you can’t do a thing.”
“As for me—I haven’t gone to see a single moving picture or ever bought sweets on a whim.”
“Even so—whether it’s toothaches or catching colds or this and that—the human body’s made to need money.”
“And then—daily habits…”
“A woman must use white, clean undergarments and waistbands and paper—anything less is her shame.”
“If your underthings get soiled or you use black coarse paper… it’s not fit to be seen.”
“What do you mean it costs much?”
“Even I managed to save from such circumstances.”
“Saving money isn’t something you take to the afterlife.”
“There’ll surely come a time—once in your life while you’re living—when it proves useful.”
“If I hadn’t saved anything—what would’ve become of that girl…”
“It proved useful.”
“Ten years of hardship proved useful.”
“Now with this—I’ve nothing left to regret.”
“I felt relieved.”
“That girl still doesn’t understand that…”
“Can’t blame her—she’s still young…”
“When you reach my age—you understand well what it means to feel relieved at being useful.”

“Well, even I thought about it for a day or two.”
“Just because I thought about it doesn’t mean I regretted it at all.”
“Whether it will truly be useful—that’s what matters most.”
“That’s ten years of hardship.”
“If it proves useful, anyone would feel relieved.”
“I have nothing more to think about.”
“I am truly happy for that girl.”

But even as she shook her head and kept up her lively chatter, she was crying.
After drinking sake, her eyes grew clouded, and when her legs seemed to go numb, she began massaging her knees with both hands.
By that time, the young maid was already dozing off.

Oshige tidied up the folding boxes and sake bottles, stuck her head into the closet, rummaged through the trunk, and showed her, once again, multiple photographs of Mochiko in her beautiful geisha attire.
After they lay down side by side, even then—until she fell asleep—she kept looking at those photographs without pause…

The young maid’s talk of this nature captured the Shimamura couple’s attention.
They particularly felt they could not leave untouched the savings they had heard amounted to over a thousand yen at face value.
Though examining Oshige’s belongings felt improper, it seemed better to discreetly inform Mochiko—who appeared to have some deeper connection—about the matter.

She, who had worked as a geisha under the name Tsutako, was led by the folding box shop couple from Honjo and crossed the threshold of the Shimamura household for the first time. Her hair was done up in a demure seven-to-three Western-style part, and she had removed all her rings, but something indefinably unsettling about her overall appearance made Shimamura’s wife unable to feel at ease. She was a slender woman of twenty-two or twenty-three with well-proportioned features, yet her puffy, restless eyes framed by sagging lids, her smooth cheeks lacking vitality and color, her nearly bare face contrasted by neck makeup applied in white streaks, the professional way she wore her crested black kimono with collar folds no amateur could achieve, and her posture from hips to knees—all combined to create an impression of perpetual instability, as if she might flit away at any moment, making it difficult for the ailing, high-strung Mrs. Shimamura to converse comfortably with her. Particularly, the slender line of her nose and the protruding lower lip of her underbite unsettled her in some indefinable way. She told Shimamura about that. And so, Shimamura took over the conversation.

Seizing the opportunity, Shimamura summoned her to the annex and began discussing Oshige's savings.
It was a casual reply—she knew all about it.

“When she came yesterday, she left the savings, passbook, and seal with me.”
“She said she would give them to you, but since things have turned out this way, I wish to take care of the funeral expenses and such…”

“Oh, such things don’t matter in the least. What’s important is simply that you’re aware such items existed.”
“Since she seemed deeply concerned about it…”
“I am well aware.”

That was all that needed to be said.
She did not shed a single tear, her cheek muscles stiffening as though she had tightly shut away her heart.
They could not sit facing each other much longer.
There were various matters to attend to.

When Oshige’s coffin was being transported toward Honjo that evening, the young maid was sobbing.
The children around ten years old huddled together and saw off the coffin with a strange, frightened air.

Then, about a week later, Tsutako suddenly came to visit.
After that, Shimamura once met her at a certain ryotei.
Furthermore, about a month later, he received a visit from Tsuboi Hiroshi, who had become deeply involved with Tsutako, and then received a rather detailed letter from Shanghai.
And while Shimamura had come to grasp the general outline of their circumstances, it would be much later before he fully grasped the truth of the matter.

Therefore, the narrative brush must now depart from Shimamura Yoichi at this juncture.
Incidentally, it bears mentioning that Oshige’s remains were kept at a temple for some time before being laid to rest in her hometown cemetery through Tsutako’s hands.

Tsutako maintained an earnest composure at Shimamura's residence, but this very decorum revealed how deeply her aunt—Oshige—’s sudden death had shaken her, compelling such formality precisely due to the emotional impact. The cause of death had been clearly explained to her without suspicious aspects, yet she found herself unable to dispel memories of their final evening together. Moreover, she had only just that afternoon bid farewell to Tsuboi in that characteristically uncertain manner of theirs.

The time when Tsuboi had procured fifty yen and they met at a new branch location free of unpaid obligations from the previous evening—rising around nine in the morning after spending the night there, then passing the hours until noon in a daze with just two or three sake flasks between them—all felt like something from a dream.
There had been nothing particular to discuss.
In the hazy daylight, sitting there facing each other like that, she found herself no longer certain whether she even liked Tsuboi.

They had never truly been lovers from the start.
Tsuboi possessed a sturdy physique reminiscent of country stock, offering nothing but clumsy renditions of popular songs and half-learned folk ditties unsuited to his manner. He drank not for pleasure but obligation, stacking up sake cups at a reckless pace that drew Tsutako into his rhythm until intoxication entangled them through what might as well have been coincidence.
For Tsutako—bound by contract, only four years into her career, and lacking any position demanding propriety—her earnings remained unremarkable.
Yet through gradual familiarity, their involvement deepened despite themselves.
When rumors began circulating around the time she started enjoying being treated to coffee by peers who teased her, Tsuboi found his finances crumbling.
His growing sarcasm and displays of jealousy inversely mirrored Tsutako’s emotional tilt toward him.
From then on, mutual coercion escalated while defaults piled up at their meeting places.
This very friction stoked their urges until they could scarcely avoid meeting.
Even then, strangely enough, they doubted whether love truly connected them—yet equally doubted their capacity to part.

On a cold night scoured by dry gusts, past ten o'clock, Tsutako—already quite drunk—had begun leaving the banquet room. At that moment, along the tram-lined avenue before a dimly lit postcard shop, a man in a cloak stood pole-straight with his head cocked. Tsutako marched briskly over and silently aligned her shoulder with his. When the man continued frozen in place indefinitely, her impatience finally compelled her to speak.

“Mr. Tsuboi…”

When Tsuboi turned around, a lonely wry smile had surfaced on his face.

“How long had you been standing here doing this? Even though I knew…”

“Well… I was thinking.”

The two briefly exchanged glances before Tsutako suddenly pulled him along and started walking.

“Just leave it to me.”

They entered a narrow alleyway and climbed up to a house Tsutako knew—her first time there.
True to form during such moments, Tsuboi grew restless and sullen.
He made sarcastic comments and deliberately affected a cold tone.
Tsutako deflected them with composed laughter while adopting an air of carelessness.
As her drinking quickened and she began humming popular songs between sips, Tsuboi repeatedly tried to stand up.
“It’s still early,” Tsutako said.
Eventually she started insisting she didn’t want to go home.
By then both were thoroughly drunk.
Time slips away unnoticed when intoxicated.
Tsuboi appeared angry.
Tsutako seemed icily detached.

“I won’t walk you home tonight.”

“Yes, please do.”

Tsutako was staggering.
When she parted with Tsuboi on the main street, she leaned against utility poles, occasionally stopped to exhale hot breaths, and then staggered onward.
Her hair done in a Shimada style swayed like poppies buffeted by the wind.
Her body in banquet attire was slender and emaciated, the yellowish obi standing out prominently.
From behind her, Tsuboi trailed after her, weaving in and out of sight.
Taking a long detour through narrow back alleys, she circled around to the front of her house, then leaned both hands against the post beside the latticed doorway. Pressing her forehead to the backs of her hands, she swayed her body coquettishly while shaking her head in refusal.

“What are you doing?”

When Tsuboi approached and called out to her, she looked up with a blank face and gazed at him with eyes that seemed to peer into the distance.

“Aren’t you going home yet…?”
“I’m fine—I’m not drunk at all…”

Because her voice was loud, Tsuboi—in some sober corner of his chest not yet fully given over to drunkenness—felt self-conscious, gripped her hand, and murmured low.

“Well then, I’ll be going. Get inside now.”

The instant she clattered open the lattice door, Tsuboi jerked backward, clasped his hands deep in his coat pockets, bowed his head, and began walking straight ahead.

The hour had grown late—the streets lay nearly deserted, only the small coffeehouses and taverns still glowing bright yet quiet within. Evading noisy motorcars with hollow interiors, he found himself drawn toward Shinobazu Pond where he stared at water lashed by bitter winds. Then suddenly Tsutako came running and clung to him.

“What’s wrong…?”

“I looked everywhere for you…
Somehow I got worried…”

Her face, still drunk yet tense, looked as cold as stone.
Just that alone clouded Tsuboi’s eyes with tears.

“No, I don’t want to go home.”

“I don’t want to either.”
“Let’s walk together.”

After walking along the pond’s edge briefly, they soon found themselves returning to the house they had just left. While Tsutako knocked on the front door and whispered something to the maid who appeared, Tsuboi stood dejectedly in the shadows there...

These sentimental drunken caprices gradually expanded the scope of their defaults until, when Tsuboi could no longer manage financially, that burden fell entirely upon Tsutako. Her senior geisha, unable to stand by idly any longer, had at first offered subtle warnings but eventually grew genuinely concerned and began giving serious counsel. To Tsutako in her sober moments, this advice felt both like an offense requiring atonement and an irritating provocation. With Tsuboi, they had both assumed they could sever ties at any time. This complacency gradually dragged them into deeper waters until—when their defaults began accumulating everywhere—they finally looked back to find themselves in an irremediable state. Had it been only Tsuboi’s situation, that might have been manageable, but her own defaults to various establishments would eventually mean she could no longer remain in the area. Then she suddenly thought of going to Dalian.

It began when she briefly overheard that a certain colleague had moved to Dalian the previous year and was now living there in carefree happiness; upon making inquiries, she found descriptions ranging from dreadful to leisurely—in any case, her naive imagination became inflamed. Even so, this notion of going to Dalian remained ultimately a passing fancy until one day her senior geisha issued a stern warning: her reputation had grown quite poor lately, and they couldn’t keep her on indefinitely if she continued this way. Suddenly lonely, she found herself calling her aunt—Oshige—without quite meaning to.

Oshige came worried. Using this as an excuse, they peeked into a neighborhood movie theater and rested at a soba shop on their way back.

Whenever Tsutako saw Oshige’s face, she always felt as if she had met her mother, and could indulge in any form of dependence.
The fact that she did what needed doing—providing occasional pocket money and gifts—only made it easier for her to yield to this dependence.
That Oshige showed not the slightest enjoyment whether watching movies or eating soba, her restless eyes seemingly observing Tsutako’s condition through furtive glances—this struck Tsutako as unexpected.

“Didn’t you say you had something to discuss?”

When Oshige finally asked her that, Tsutako laughed.

“Yes.
But it’s okay now, Aunt.”

Oshige looked utterly exasperated as she worked her mouth—missing one tooth—in a chewing motion.
Then with a worried look she insisted Tsutako must confide everything.
“You’re my only hope,” she added.

“It’s really okay,” said Tsutako.
“Just… I’d thought about going to Dalian or something…”

“What? Dalian… How could you…”
“Why would you even think such a thing…”

Because Oshige was so startled, Tsutako found herself feeling strangely solemn and began talking about how difficult it was to work in this district. She spoke of how people made such a fuss over distinctions—like junior geisha, those from smaller teahouses, or long-standing ones from prestigious houses—among other things. On Oshige’s part, she declared Dalian to be like hell itself—a distant, terrible place. From such exchanges, Tsutako ended up talking about Tsuboi and the resulting financial mess. Oshige’s face darkened greatly.

“Do you intend to be with that person?”

“No, Aunt, it’s not like that.”
“I mean to break it off completely, but first I must settle my defaults to the establishments—that’s why I’m in such trouble.”
“It was my own foolishness….”

Still Oshige pressed her—did she truly mean to part with that man?
Tsutako widened her eyes.
“I’ll find a proper patron from now on and make life easier for you, Aunt,” she pledged in mollifying tones.
Oshige heaved a deep sigh…….

On the evening following that exchange, Tsuboi scraped together some money, and the two drank leisurely together until they sat in a daze, faces blankly meeting each other’s gaze until around noon the next morning. Remembering this now, Tsutako found it unbearably funny.

As she gazed at Tsuboi’s face, she wondered whether she truly loved this man.
He had stiff hair, a dark complexion, and a stocky build—his most striking feature being those large, round eyes that darted restlessly beneath thick eyebrows.
As she looked at them, she was reminded of an owl’s eyes.

“Say, Mr. Tsuboi—if we were to commit lovers’ suicide, do you think our story would make the papers?”

“Well, it probably would make the papers.”

With just that, Tsuboi sat blankly staring.
To begin with, their relationship stood far removed from notions of lovers' suicide, shared futures, or vows of love.
Yet they persisted in meeting despite the strain, cornered in the unfamiliar second floor of a house.
Moreover—for Tsutako from the start, and Tsuboi too—there existed no strong sexual desire.
Tsuboi gazed with an uncharacteristic smile at Tsutako's smooth cheeks, her slender nose bridge, and the sensual lower lip of her mouth.

“You’ve seemed rather haggard lately. Why don’t you find yourself a good patron soon?”

That held not a trace of sarcasm in its tone.

“Yes. But even if I get a patron, you’ll still meet me.”

“Well... If you come to see me, I might meet you, but...”

“Oh my, you’re making me feel indebted.”

Suddenly, she assumed an intensely alluring gaze. Tsuboi lit a cigarette. And then, in a detached tone, he spoke of how Tokyo had become a dead end, so he’d requested a sizable loan from an acquaintance back in his hometown—if that came through, things might get interesting. Tsutako too talked about how she had thought of perhaps going to Dalian and mentioned it to her aunt, only to be severely scolded—relating it all as if it were someone else’s affair. Eventually, they grew hungry, so they had a simple meal and then parted ways. Tsuboi’s owl-like eyes had taken on a cloudiness…

That utterly unremarkable, insubstantial way of parting had paradoxically lingered in Tsutako’s mind.
In the evening, as she prepared herself, it floated back into her thoughts again, leaving her tearful.
And even when night fell, no one contacted her and she remained alone.

At that moment, Oshige suddenly appeared.

“There’s something important I need to discuss…”

As if sharing a secret, she whispered into Tsutako’s ear at the entrance, then cast a piercing glance around the empty room where the others had gone out.
Sensing something unusual in her demeanor, Tsutako entrusted the aftermath to the old maid and took Oshige up to the second floor of a nearby small restaurant.

Oshige shook her reddish-brown stray hair and, with a sharp gaze, suddenly posed the question.

“What became of that talk about going to Dalian?”

Tsutako was overwhelmed by the formal tone.
Unable to laugh, she forced a solemn expression and swore that it had merely been a passing remark—she would never do such a thing.

“And then,” Oshige pressed further, “have you truly resolved to part with that… bad person?”

When she realized it was about Tsuboi, Tsutako hesitated in her reply.
Because Oshige was so earnest, she couldn't bring herself to lie.
She answered after much deliberation.
That he was by no means a bad person; that she had felt neither liking nor disliking for him from the start; that if they resolved to end things there, they could each go their separate ways without issue; that she was defaulting on obligations everywhere, which left her in such straits that she still kept seeing him...
The reason for that situation seemed beyond Oshige's full comprehension.
When given a detailed explanation and began to grasp some of it, she made a relieved face.

“Then, how much money would it take for everything to be completely resolved?”

“How much? A little would do.”
“But Aunt, you really don’t need to worry about such things.”
“It’ll work out somehow, I tell you.”

At that, Tsutako laughed for the first time.
She offered Oshige sake.
Oshige drained the cup with evident relish, then plunged both hands into her kimono folds. After a prolonged struggle, she extracted her postal savings passbook and seal.

“I’m giving this all to you—please put it to good use.”
“What I possess is all there is—please use it in a way that serves its purpose.”

Tsutako was dumbfounded.
No matter how much she insisted she hadn't come to consult her aunt about money, Oshige wouldn't listen.
When she opened the passbook and saw the amount exceeded a thousand yen, Tsutako grew even more astonished.
Oshige forced it on her.
"In that case, I'll borrow these for a while," Tsutako said, slipping the passbook and seal into her obi.
Oshige stared fixedly at those casually handled items, but from her unblinking eyes tears suddenly streamed down in a torrent.

“Oh, what’s wrong, Aunt?”

Oshige continued to cry.
Tsutako sidled closer and placed a hand on her shoulder. When she felt Oshige’s rigid fingertips against her knee, something akin to pain shot through her chest, making her eyes well up.

“Aunt, I’ll work myself to the bone from now on—I’ll repay your kindness without fail.”
“If things ever settle down... I want to own a proper house.”
“Then you’ll come live with me, won’t you?”

Oshige nodded to each word.
Then she stopped crying and watched Tsutako’s face with a gaze as if beholding some beautiful vision.
Tsutako smiled naturally.
Uncharacteristically, vivid color flushed into her cheeks.
Oshige slumped heavily against the desk but tilted her head slightly before picking up the cup.

“It’s been so long since I drank like this with you, Aunt.”

Oshige nodded silently.
Tsutako kept refilling their cups while making scattered conversation.
Oshige hardly spoke beyond nodding continuously, yet she looked content.
A phone call came from Tsutako’s house.
Tsutako wrapped the boxed lunch and sake bottle, forcing them into Oshige’s hands.
“Explain things to Master and take your time at home,” she said.
Oshige poked at the obi’s fold and repeatedly warned her not to drop the passbook.
Tsutako nodded as if humoring a child.

Tsutako returned home and sat before her vanity, but suddenly, as if vexed, she made them refuse the incoming geisha engagement. And while gazing absently into the mirror and smoking a cigarette, she sank into deep thought.

When Tsuboi heard from Tsutako about Oshige’s postal savings, her sudden death, and how Tsutako had been saved by those savings, he felt a complex shock.
As she recounted these matters with a cheerfulness bordering on despair, Tsuboi gradually sank into gloom.

From the depths of that gloom, he vividly recalled the time he had first met Tsutako—and even further back still.

At Yoshida Trading Company, where he was employed, there came a financial inquiry from a large stock-based trading firm handling trade goods.
The collateral consisted of warehouse receipts stating their value, with an application for twelve thousand yen regarding four thousand cases of Taiwanese-made canned pineapple.
A box containing three dozen was worth around five yen as collateral at the time, making three yen per box a rather modest request.
President Yoshida Kenzo immediately approved.
However, after about three months had passed—the duration of the loan period—when it expired, the president called Tsuboi and asked him to exert himself for the company’s sake.
The matter involved warehouse receipts for four thousand cases of pineapples that had fallen into collateral status; he wanted Tsuboi to secure a financial solution—and as large a sum as possible—within the coming month.
Moreover, he suggested consulting with them first and even named another trading company that might be approached.
Tsuboi was surprised.
Even though there were other senior colleagues, such a major responsibility had been entrusted—and secretly at that—to someone like me, who merely handled routine tasks mechanically and was presumably viewed as incompetent.

“What do you say? Will you take this on?”

President Yoshida gazed at Tsuboi’s face with his small eyes while toying indifferently with the fountain pen on his desk between thick fingertips.
What lay in the depths of those eyes—appearing both gentle and sharp—Tsuboi found himself unable to decipher, and he hesitated.

“Then could you go right now and obtain their response?”

Tsuboi found himself abruptly burdened with the task and complied.
He felt resigned to whatever might come.

However, when he went to the other party, the manager himself met him immediately.
After hearing Tsuboi’s explanation, he said that while it was generally acceptable, he couldn’t decide on the amount alone and would give his reply later.

That was all there was to it.
Afterward, President Yoshida never spoke a word to him about the matter.
Presumably he had settled it directly with the other party.
At the year-end bonus two months later, he received a package equivalent to ten months' salary and was shocked.

“This is a special arrangement, so keep it quiet.”
“There are various matters I’ll need to ask of you in the future.”
“This work will grow more interesting over time—just endure it.”

President Yoshida’s goodwill didn’t sit right with Tsuboi.
However, before long, he overheard his colleagues whispering about those warehouse receipts.
It was said that those securities had been transferred to another department at a rate of five yen and fifty sen per box.
When that happened, a rough idea of what was going on began to dawn on Tsuboi as well.
The amount had increased from twelve thousand yen to twenty-two thousand yen—where on earth had that margin rolled away to?
It probably did not end up in Mr. Yoshida’s pocket alone.
He could not avoid harboring doubts both about the trading firm’s conduct in disposing of the securities while leaving the amount at that small figure, and about the logic of the narrative that had positioned him as merely a nominal envoy.
He continued his work as usual, unsociably and silently, in a manner excluded by his other colleagues.
And feeling something stifling in his surroundings, he felt like spending every last yen of his bonus.
It was during such an opportunity that he encountered Tsutako.
After that, dragged along by inertia, he used up his bonus and such, received strained remittances from his hometown, incurred other debts, and still it wasn’t enough...

“You mustn’t think about it,” Tsutako said brightly.

Tsuboi gazed absently at that face.

“And you withdrew all of aunt’s savings.”

“No.”
“It probably wouldn’t be enough anyway.”
“Even so… If I could freely—if I could even rent out a shop name or something—then everyone might as well withdraw it all, but…”
“We have to leave at least a little—it’d be too pitiful otherwise.”

“Pitiful… To whom…?”

“……Just… Mr. Tsuboi, I don’t feel that way…”

“Hmm…”
“But you seem cheerful enough.”

“Yes, cheerful.
From now on, I’ll work like mad.”

Tsuboi felt her slipping smoothly from his arms.
Something—not herself nor her aunt—something pitiable weighed on him as he watched her standing there so brightly, poised at a perilous edge where the slightest nudge might send her careening into wild dissolution or rigid propriety, with no middling path to resolution.
He too sensed himself teetering at that same brink.
Wearing a smile half-wry and half-desperate, he spoke.

“What do you say—how about marrying me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Just because…”
“If it comes to marriage, we might just end up committing lovers’ suicide.”

“Then shall we commit lovers’ suicide?”

“Yes, that’s fine.… I want to get drunk today.”
“If I get drunk… I can throw a tantrum, can’t I?”

But Tsuboi didn’t want to get drunk in the least.
Something had awoken something strangely vivid in the depths of his chest, and that thing was now staring fixedly at both Tsutako and himself.

“How old was Auntie?”

“She was fifty… nine, maybe. But she looked much older than her age.”

She furrowed her brows and picked up the cup. Tsuboi also took his cup. Drinking sake this way felt absurd, but such absurdity might have been the only recourse left. He sank into thought again. He wanted to hear more details about Auntie’s final days, but Tsutako seemed unwilling to dwell on such matters now. Her heart resided solely in the affairs of the living—only while they lived... And yet, what obstructed her earnest attempt at living? Tsuboi sank into thought again.

“You mustn’t think about it.”

“I won’t think about it.”

And Tsuboi stood up.

“Are you leaving?”
“Yeah.”

Tsutako did not try to stop him.
Tsuboi walked alone through the chilly late-night streets of early spring.
If I had money—I might not even glance at someone like Tsutako—such thoughts came to him.
If driven to desperation—it was conceivable I might kill her—such thoughts came to him.

For about a month after that—around when Tsuboi had briefly met Shimamura Yoichi—he sank into a dim melancholy while gradually drifting away from Tsutako...

One day, Tsuboi was summoned by President Yoshida Kenzo at the company again.

“I’ve another request I need to ask of you.”

Mr. Yoshida said in a hushed voice. He simply wanted someone to visit the managing director of a certain company, exchange 7,000 yen in cash for an 8,000 yen promissory note with one-month maturity, and bring back the certificate—that was all. However, since the drawer was the other company's managing director personally while the payee was our company, this required careful handling. Tsuboi grew suspicious of such a trivial errand and studied Mr. Yoshida's expression. Then Mr. Yoshida lowered his voice further, explaining it would be awkward for him to go himself—that whether individuals or companies, they sometimes found themselves in secret predicaments—and stated that since their trading firm's policy absolutely rejected unsecured loans, Tsuboi was the only messenger who could protect the secret. He repeatedly warned that if even a whiff of this secret leaked out, it risked sparking various speculations. Tsuboi listened vacantly. The unnervingly gentle thin voice coming from those seemingly greedy lips sounded nothing like its owner's—and behind that voice, small eyes hiding a light that seemed to pierce through human hearts kept vigilant watch. Confronted with these physical traits, Tsuboi felt a mix of terror and revulsion. Clutching the bundle of 7,000 yen, he quietly left the room.

When he emerged onto the street and took a deep breath, Tsuboi felt a slight dizziness.
Spring sunlight filled the sky, and through its reflection, the office district of Marunouchi—lined with massive buildings—appeared as though submerged underwater.
He forgot to hail a taxi and stood vacantly.
At that moment, his consciousness became a boundless void where countless surreal visions crowded.
Later he would attribute these mental workings to his unsociable nature’s foundation, calling them an epileptic seizure of nature’s rebellion against artifice.
But regardless, at that moment he stripped away roofs and peeled off walls from countless buildings, laying bare their interiors.
The massed figures of salaried workers during commuting hours piled atop them.
Yoshida Kenzo’s face loomed large in the foreground.
He felt unbearable desolation.
Within that desolation came nausea neither physical nor mental…

It lasted only a single moment.
He immediately found himself and returned to a composed state of mind.
A sardonic something softened the muscles of his face.
He started walking and spat on the street.
He wanted to rebel against everything…

What followed could be briefly recounted.
He rested for about an hour on a bench in the shade of Hibiya Park's trees.
Then he headed toward Ueno by automobile.
In a room at an acquaintance's house, he drank sake with Tsutako until evening.
He left her stunned with words about temporarily returning to his hometown and two thousand yen in cash.
That night he boarded the Tokaido Line train.
Utterly composed—not the slightest trace of agitation showed—such crimes are often carried out with this very calmness.

Tsuboi crossed over from Nagasaki to Shanghai.

Seven years later, Shimamura Yoichi suddenly received a visit from Tsuboi Hiroshi.
Shimamura had already forgotten about that mysterious man who had once abruptly come inquiring about Oshige's living circumstances during her lifetime, and about that same man who had written from Shanghai confessing to a crime of uncertain authenticity.
Yet when they actually met, he was a man in his forties with a powerful build and keen-eyed features.
He displayed an unpretentious, open-hearted friendliness.
Those eyes strangely possessed something that drew people's hearts and evoked an owl's gaze.
Shimamura remembered.

“Ah, it was you…”

“Had you forgotten? Ha ha ha ha.”

It was a vigorous laugh, yet one empty of emotion.
And he gazed at Shimamura’s face with nostalgia.
Shimamura found himself unable to meet that unflinchingly direct gaze—so candid it verged on rudeness.

“Since returning here, I suddenly wanted to see you, so I’ve rudely dropped by. Is everyone well?”

“Ah, well….”

Reflecting on it, Shimamura’s wife had died of illness, and his ideologies and sentiments had undergone considerable transformation. However, Tsuboi seemed to have changed far more profoundly from those days—or rather, it appeared that various inner aspects had grown vigorously within him. He was not talkative, but spoke about matters in short, sporadic bursts.

The matter of the letter from Shanghai was true; using what remained of the money he had embezzled back then, he engaged in certain illegal activities best left unpublicized and managed to amass considerable wealth, which was why he had now come dancing back to Tokyo. What he would do next remained under consideration. At that time after going to Shanghai, he had monitored newspapers from the mainland, but Yoshida Kenzo’s decision to bury the incident as it stood should be considered a wise measure. However, he had no further use for that sort of man.

Back then, he had thought all sorts of foolish things—apparently that too had been due to “epileptic fits of nature’s rebellion against artifice”—and now he went on to explain these “fits” in detail, claiming he had learned how to harness them.

“Do they still occur?”

“At times, it seems they might occur.”

Shimamura smiled serenely.
From such talk, Shimamura too came to feel a familiarity with his owl-like gaze and brought up Tsutako.
He tried inviting him to visit historic sites.

“Well, if you’re willing…”

He no longer seemed to pay any mind to Tsutako.
Even Shimamura had, strangely enough, completely forgotten about Tsutako after that.

The two went out.
It so happened that Shimamura was acquainted with a woman named Shizuha who had long been active in that area, so he summoned her and inquired about Tsutako.
Upon pressing for details, there was indeed a Tsutako, but she was a different person; the previous Tsutako had quit several years prior, and it seemed no one knew what had become of her now.

“In that case, shall I call this Tsutako for you?”

“No, let’s leave it.”

Tsuboi answered immediately.
And he kept comparing Shimamura and Shizuha’s demeanor, but suddenly asked Shizuha why she had come to like Shimamura.
When Shizuha simply smiled, Tsuboi began explaining why he liked Shimamura—back before that incident, he had seen Shimamura’s sculptures.
Among them was a single female bust—slightly grotesque, yet radiating the primal warmth of flesh itself, stripped of human aesthetic sensibilities.
Shimamura too seemed to have such inclinations.
He claimed to have known Shimamura since that time.

“In you, Mr. Shimamura, there are both a deeply compassionate kindness and an inhumanly cold detachment intermingled, wouldn’t you say?”

“You seem much the same,” Shizuha replied.

“Ah, that is my torment.
“Mr. Shimamura, who doesn’t feel that torment, is truly fortunate.”

And Tsuboi once again gazed intently at Shimamura’s face.
Before that gaze, Shimamura now felt a familiarity that allowed him to completely abandon himself.